


Friends, Brothers, Other Things You Stick To

by branwyn



Category: Cabin Pressure, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF!Martin, Douglas!whump, Gen, Siblings, martin to the rescue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-03
Updated: 2012-04-03
Packaged: 2017-11-02 23:33:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/374608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/branwyn/pseuds/branwyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From the OP's prompt:</p><p>Douglas ends up on the very wrong end of a smuggling deal he refused to take at the last minute and gets beaten within an inch of his life. He's left for dead in one of the airfield's disused outbuildings.</p><p>Martin finds him. Martin takes care of him. Martin protects him. Martin avenges him.</p><p> </p><p>(My fill included bonus Mycroft. Because I can't get enough of Martin as the littlest Holmes brother.)</p><p> </p><p>Original prompt here: http://cabinpres-fic.dreamwidth.org/3282.html?thread=4744658#cmt4744658</p>
            </blockquote>





	Friends, Brothers, Other Things You Stick To

"Mycroft."

There is a delicate pause on the other end of the line. From any other person, it might have been a genuine token of surprise, but this is Martin's frightening genius of an elder half-brother, and everything he does is calculated for effect.

"Sherrinford," says Mycroft. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I go by Martin now, as you very well know, you superannuated berk," says Martin. "And I'm not in the mood for your little games tonight. Something's happened."

"Of course. My apologies, Martin." While Mycroft's tone isn't precisely apologetic, Martin can tell that he's voluntarily giving ground, probably because he can read the absolute lack of patience in Martin's tone. "You yourself are well enough, I trust?"

Martin may not be a Holmes, _per se_ , but no one gets all their qualities from just one parent. Mycroft and Sherlock's mother might have been the certified human supercomputer contributing to their DNA, but they do all have the same father, and there was nothing at all wrong with his brains. Besides that, Martin's got the four siblings, while Mycroft and Sherlock have just the two; when it comes to negotiating sibling rivalries, it's definitely advantage: Crieff.

"That's going to depend on you, I think." Martin allows just the faintest hint of vulnerability into his voice. It's less than he feels, but it's enough to communicate to Mycroft that the situation is a serious one. "Douglas--my first officer--he's been taken."

"Hmm." Martin can hear a rapid pattering of fingers across a keyboard. "What manner of goods or person has he attempted to illegally ferry across international borders this time?" 

Mycroft sounds indifferent, even faintly amused, but Martin knows that this too is for show. He cares, because Martin cares. Despite appearances, Martin gets on with his half-brothers rather better than he does with his full siblings. Martin suspects that Sherlock's feelings for him are a grown up version of the sort of loyalty that develops between a lonely, harassed boy and the faithful little brother who never once stood by and let other children call him freak, or fling mud on him. With Mycroft, it's more to do with the ten year gap in their ages; Mycroft was so grown up by the time he and Martin first met that he would have considered it beneath his dignity to tease or torment a much younger child. As far as Martin can tell, Mycroft's never quite adjusted his worldview to account for the fact that they are both grown ups now, and Martin is rarely interested in being rescued anymore.

He isn't all that interested in being rescued right now, for that matter. But Douglas is a different matter. He's the best friend Martin's got in the world, and Martin will absolutely leverage all of Mycroft's family feeling and his unnerving spook connections to get him back safely, if that's what it takes.

"As a matter of fact," says Martin, in clipped tones, "he's been taken prisoner precisely because he refused to redirect a valuable cargo of medicine from a poor South American village that desperately needs it. I don't care what you think of him, Mycroft, he's a good man, and right now he's suffering for it. And I might add, if he doesn't come out of this intact, he's not going to be available for any more of those little errands you find it so convenient to send us on. Yes, I do know about those, you're not half as subtle about them as you think you are."

"I quite take your meaning, Martin, there's no need to be obstreperous." More typing, and the sound of papers being shuffled. "I have your coordinates. I believe I can have an extraction team in place to rendezvous with you in, oh, four hours."

Martin grits his teeth and walks away from where Carolyn is standing outside GERTI, attempting to calm a slightly hysterical Arthur. "Four hours isn't good enough," he hisses. "You didn't see what they looked like. They're torturing him now, I'm sure of it."

Mycroft makes a tutting noise behind his teeth. "My dear boy, I am not unsympathetic to your friend's plight, but whatever ideas you may cherish as to the range of my influence, there are limits to the resources I can mobilize at such short notice.

"Is that right?" If it were Douglas--or even Sherlock--on the other end of the line just now, they would recognize Martin's tone of voice. The last time he had occasion to make use of it, he was helping to pry a stolen aircraft from the benumbed paws of Carolyn's ex-husband. Mycroft, however, has never dealt with Martin when he's in "not-remotely-to-be-trifled-with" mode. Though to be fair, it takes quite a lot to drive Martin to that point.

The thought of Douglas, bloody and beaten and tied to a pipe in a dank basement somewhere, hasn't _driven_ Martin to that point so much as it's raced him there in a Aston-Martin pumped full of aviation fuel.

"Far be it from me to tell you your business, _brother_ ," says Martin. "But it may interest you to know that I haven't the faintest intention of waiting _four hours_ for any sort of rendezvous. I know precisely where they've taken Douglas, and just as soon as I turn off this phone, strip the battery, and crush the GPS chip--oh, and change my shoes for the pair I bought at the duty free, where I imagine even you might have had difficulty planting back-up GPS trackers-- _I'm going after him myself_." 

Martin's pulse is pounding, because he's manipulating Mycroft, yes, but that doesn't mean he isn't deadly serious. He's certainly not looking forward to what the next few hours might hold in store for him if Mycroft doesn't play along, but damn it, this is _Douglas_. 

Martin might be well-supplied in siblings, but friends are another matter. And Douglas is a matter entirely unto himself.

"Martin, don't be a fool." Mycroft's voice is sharp, slightly panicked, and utterly without the big-brother-knows-best smugness that's normally to be found whenever Martin talks to him. "I know you go running about after Sherlock on occasion, but that doesn't make you a trained covert operative. You'll only get yourself _and_ your friend killed."

"Douglas will very likely be dead by the time your _extraction team_ show up," Martin snarls. "Do you think I want to be safe and cozy in my hotel room when that happens? He's my _friend_ , and when your friend is in trouble you don't stand around bloody well weighing the cost of helping him, you just help him!"

Mycroft's end of the line is silent for four seconds, which is perhaps the longest period of silence Martin has ever known him to maintain. Martin fidgets in place, turning in circles just on the off chance that someone's sneaking up on him. No one is, of course, because he's on an airfield, but it makes him feel better.

"In approximately fifteen minutes, a helicopter will land at your present location," says Mycroft finally. "I presume that when you say you know Mr Richardson's whereabouts, you mean in a general sense, rather than in terms of coordinates?"

"Er, yes," says Martin, trying to keep the hopefulness from his voice

"My people will collect you shortly. You will ask them for the password. You do recall your password, I trust?"

"Yes." Martin's craning his head back, already searching the skies for the black helicopter.

"And what is your password, Martin?"

Martin heaves a sigh. " _Red Baron._ "

"Excellent." Mycroft muffles the phone and speaks to someone else in the room, before returning to Martin. "I hope you appreciate that I am doing this--not _quite_ against my better judgment, but certainly against my inclination. Do not take foolish risks, Martin." His voice softens. "Do not make me regret this."

"I won't," says Martin, just as the rumble of the helicopter's blades begin to grow audible in the distance. "Mycroft--thank you. Really and truly, thank you."

Mycroft gives a small chuckle. "Thank yourself," he says. "Well played, little brother."

Mycroft disconnects the call before Martin is obliged to think of a response to this.

 

*

"Douglas." Martin takes the small cotton disinfectant pad from the chopper's first aid kit and dabs lightly at the shallow scrape along Douglas's hairline. "It's me, Martin. I don't know if you can, um, hear me. But you're safe now. We got you back. You're going to be all right."

It's difficult to hear much of anything over the beating of the chopper's wings, but Martin bends his face low to Douglas's mouth, just to reassure himself that he is, in fact, breathing. The medic who had looked Douglas over had told Martin he would be fine, and the only reason he was non-responsive was because the extraction team had shot him full of sedative in order to get him out of the cell with the minimum of fuss, but he looks entirely too still for Martin's comfort. He'd pictured Douglas looking that still all the way to the extraction site, his head crammed full of nightmare scenarios of arriving just that one second too late.

Eventually, he straightens and wraps his hand around Douglas's wrist, pressing his fingers to the pulse point. It thrums steadily under his grip, and in this position Martin is less likely to get a crick in his neck.

They've nearly reached the landing field when the black-clad woman in the pilot's seat turns around and gestures Martin forward. "We've got the last of them rounded up," she tells him. "My orders are to consult you, regarding their disposal."

"What? Really, me?" Martin blinks at her, but her expression remains cool and professional. Not a joke then--just an added little gift from Mycroft. Christ. He'll have to take that brolly back and find him something rather nicer for Christmas this year.

Martin looks back at Douglas's limp form, and feels the line of his mouth harden. He turns to the woman.

"Release them," he says. "But, uh--could you release them somewhere quite close to where their bosses are likely to find them?"

The woman merely nods, but Martin fancies that he sees a look of cool approval in her eyes.

When Martin rejoins Douglas in the back, Douglas is just beginning to stir. His eyes open, and when he catches sight of Martin, he begins to struggled against the restraints on the gurney. 

"Martin?" he says, in a hoarse, raspy whisper. "What on earth--oh God, what have you done?" Douglas grabs his hands and squeezes tightly. "You've got to get away, they mean business, these chaps--

"No, Douglas, it's all right." Martin smiles down at him. "This is. Well. It's a rescue! We're, um, with the goodies. We'll be back at the airfield in a few minutes, and once the real doctors have checked you over, we're going home."

"Home." Douglas's eyes widen, and he stares at Martin like he's never seen anything quite like him before. "Martin, are you actually telling me that you-- _saved_ me?"

Martin smiles. And then, he shocks himself by leaning down and pressing a small, dry kiss to Douglas's temple. He flushes furiously in the next instant, of course, but this is _Douglas_. If it were Sherlock, lying here, he'd have done the same.

"Now we've both got secrets we can never tell anyone," Martin says. "Go back to sleep, Douglas."

Douglas continues to stare at him until his eyelids flicker shut. His hand, however, remains firmly wrapped around Martin's until the paramedics at the airfield pry it loose.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Thousandth Man](https://archiveofourown.org/works/398281) by [Linguini](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linguini/pseuds/Linguini)




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